


"First Things, First"

by ginsbergonthemoon



Series: First Things, First [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Parentlock, Wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginsbergonthemoon/pseuds/ginsbergonthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After seven years of marriage to the incorrigible detective, John is certain that if he hasn't gotten him figured out by now he's gotten used to him at the very least. But after a chance encounter with the children of Mrs. Hudson's new daughters-in-law, John makes another discovery about Sherlock Holmes-- one that will change their lives entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "It is a Wedding, After All."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course John expected Sherlock to make a scene at Mrs. Hudson's wedding-- it was inevitable, wasn't it?
> 
> But he certainly hadn't expected... this...

"You could have at least asked the poor woman before you dumped the contents of her bag all over the floor." John's attempt at a stern mutter is ruined somewhat by the tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, but he's not about to be deterred from his stance that Sherlock Holmes display a modicum of social grace at Mrs. Hudson's wedding.

He'd nearly gotten through the whole thing, only huffing petulantly enough for John to hear when their landlady's groom gave his vows-- which John did admit were a tad flowery-- and keeping his deductions about the friends and family making toasts to a whispered minimum. But the moment John had decided his husband was going to behave himself long enough for John to get a gin and tonic from the bar, Sherlock had seized his opportunity and, like an incorrigible, irrepressible jungle cat, pounced.

John tightens his grip on Sherlock's suit-jacketed arm, steering him toward a largely deserted end of the tent, between a rose-petal covered table and a swirling topiary that will hopefully hide them discreetly from the aforementioned woman and whatever family members may wish to avenge her slighted honor. Nothing in the tilt of Sherlock's chin or the jaunty angle of his raised eyebrow express contrition.

"Then perhaps she oughtn't to have made it so plain that she had been availing herself of more than the complimentary bar this afternoon." Sherlock turns slightly to better watch the wedding reception, light gilding his features in just a way to distract John. Only just.

"Massive bottle of whiskey or no, you promised Mrs. Hudson you'd be _nice_."

"She was also stealing silverware beneath that ridiculous handkerchief, which I admit was certainly impressive for someone ingesting that quantity of alcohol." Sherlock mutters, clasping his hands together elegantly behind his back. "I thought you'd appreciate me not pointing out anything other than rampant and probably well known alcoholism at the time. It is a wedding after all."

Aware of both the fact that he's being mocked and no longer really has Sherlock's attention John crosses his arms across his chest and sighs. Right to left those blue eyes scan like an experienced prospector panning for gold, flicking from face to face in the party. It's still mesmerizing, after years of seeing Sherlock in action, and John doesn't tear his gaze away even with the mild irritation simmering in his chest. At the memory of the more than slightly tipsy woman's slurred insistence that Sherlock would be speaking to a member of her delegation for his rude behavior the irritation shifts more toward amusement, and he settles into a seat at the empty wooden table.

The wedding had of course been planned in tasteful restraint. Pink, yellow, and white roses against sun stripped driftwood picnic tables gives the park a gently romantic look, as though the scenery had been plucked from a Victorian garden party and set squarely in the countryside. Such romanticism was hardly necessary, as Mrs. Hudson-- now Mrs. Robinson John thinks, although sure she'll never really be anything but Mrs. Hudson to him-- and her now husband radiate a sort of faintly pink glow of bliss throughout the entire tent.

He stops watching Sherlock to look for the newlyweds, and finds them ensconced in a bouncing, twirling throng of children a few tables over. Between the shrieks and peal of laughter Mr. Robinson's voice-- still surprisingly velvety and smooth, in direct contrast to his slightly craggy features-- can be heard teasing and occasionally in the middle of a story. Mrs. (Hudson)Robinson has a small pink bundle of blankets propped in one arm and her free hand braced affectionately against the arm of a young woman with Mr. Robinson's bright green eyes. They're a family trait, apparently, as John can see flashes of green amongst nearly all of the children sprinting around the impromptu dance floor and clambering on tables with suit coats undone and ribbons trailing off dresses like streamers.

And to his surprise, John is not the only one watching the riot of color and giggling near the happy couple. Hands now steepled characteristically under his chin Sherlock regards the children with an intensity generally reserved for dead bodies and particularly challenging coded messages. It's enough to break John out of his reverie, and regard him curiously.

"Is one of them nicking sweets off the tables or something?" John asks, bemused by Sherlock's sudden interest.

"Of course. The better question would be which ones of them aren't, if it wasn't wholly irrelevant in the first place." He's watching one of the little girls arrange three of her cousins into a sort of pyramid shape for reasons completely opaque to John, until she clambers up onto the shoulders of the top boy and jerks his shirt collar excitedly. Giggling and whooping the child tower careens about the dance floor-- and Sherlock still watches, only a slight twitch at the corners of his eyes reveals anything running through his mind, although John still can't read exactly what could be running through his mind at all.

"Don't steal any of them, parents usually don't like it when their children disappear." He intones before heading over to Mrs. (Hudson)Robinson. "And come over before too long would you, Mrs. Hudson invited us of all people so you've got to say hello." Sherlock swats at him half-heartedly, not looking away from the children for a moment.

"John dear, come here and give me a kiss, there's a lad." Mrs. Hudson-- Robinson, Robinson-- says warmly, passing the baby off to its mother, enfolding John in her delicate arms and hugging him tightly. Her smile alone is dazzling to him, and takes years off her face with it's glow. Her pale peach dress is simple-- simpler even than the dresses of her now-daughters-- but matches her quiet elegance perfectly, just like the simple string of pearls at her throat. She releases him so her husband can clasp John's hand. He's got a strong grip, even at his age, and the gaze he levels at John marks him immediately as a former military.

"Captain, it's good to meet you. I think I saw you briefly at Christmas but then that tall, dark haired one whisked you off before we'd even gotten to eggnog. It's quite alright though, Maggie has told me very much about you." His clear green eyes twinkle mischievously from under his pale silver eyebrows; John grins wryly.

"He's hard pressed to sit still for more than five minutes, it gets in the way of things a bit at times. Pleasure to meet you…"

"Colonel Archibald Robinson, Archie." He supplies from behind a tumblr of amber liquid, inclining his head slightly toward John.

As if summoned by the conversation Sherlock glides toward them, both hands clasped behind the back of his dark suit jacket and a particular glint in his eye that sets John on edge. The look melts away a moment later as Sherlock allows Mrs. Hudson to sweep him into her arms, her tightly curled hair barely reaching his collarbone.

"Sherlock, thank you for coming here and looking so smart, too. How have you been, busy?"

"Well, England hasn't fallen, and you'll be back at 221B when you've finished with this?"

"Archie and I will keep the place in Brighton but of course we'll be back-- who else will make you pay for damages. Sweetheart you haven't met Sherlock yet, have you? Oh, let me get the girls over here to meet them as well. Lydia, Annette, Louisa, come here and meet my boys." She calls over to a small group of young women chatting with an older couple. They all appear to be in their mid to late thirties, one with a dark brown bob, the woman from before with a braided ponytail and the baby girl in her arms, and another slightly younger than the other two, but all with the same piercing green eyes. Even without Sherlock interpreting for him John can see that they're all obviously Colonel Archibald's daughters, with his same proud brow and slightly hooked nose, but his hard features are tempered above their full lips and slightly freckled cheeks. All three seem to finish up their conversations and make their way along one edge of the crowded tent, smiling and clasping hands as until they reach the Robinsons.

"Are these your sons Maggie? I can't believe you've waited this long to finally bring them round!" The youngest one shakes her head playfully at Mrs. Hudson in mock annoyance. She shares her sisters' blonde hair but it curls wildly around her face and bounces as she kisses John on both cheeks. "They're both so handsome-- where have you been hiding them?"

Mrs. Hudson chortles, patting Sherlock's arm and winking at John-- who is, admittedly, starting to fidget uncomfortably.

"If they were my sons I'd have hauled them down here ages ago Louie, really! They're my tenants, upstairs in 221B." She says firmly, as if the word 'tenants' explains everything entirely-- which it very distinctly does not for anyone but her.

The women to look at them both in confusion and Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in bemusement. At this point he'd usually would have introduced them both by now but the malicious glint in his eye makes it clear to John that he'd rather watch them all writhe uncomfortably in the now rather tense corner of the sunlit tent. Sighing inwardly, John extends his hand to the curly-haired daughter.

"After this many years it's really no use trying to decide exactly what we are between paying the rent and coming round for tea. I'm--"

Before he can get any further Sherlock cuts across him, extending an elegant hand to the eldest, darker haired daughter and giving her his best aristocrat's smile.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and this is my partner, Doctor John Watson."

" _Captain_ John Watson." Colonel Archibald supplies wryly from behind his whiskey, a smile crinkling the weathered skin around his eyes and melting the tension immediately.

The eldest daughter lets Sherlock take her hand with a quiet laugh, much like her father's.

"You'll have to forgive us, Mr. Holmes. We've heard so much about you from Maggie but, well…" she looks bemused as Sherlock presses her hand to his lips, but not unimpressed when he releases her and does the same to her youngest sister, nodding to the middle daughter as well, "we assumed from the praise she lavished on you and how well you've done for yourselves that she'd had to have raised you herself. I'm Annette."

"Lydia," the middle daughter says warmly, nodding as she bounces the baby slightly, "and this, is Madeline."

"She's beautiful, it's lovely to meet you both."

"Even more lovely to meet someone else mad enough to marry a detective." Lydia's voice is lower and softer than her sisters' but John can still hear the teasing jab. "My husband used to work for the police force in Liverpool, part of their heavy investigations team until our oldest got accepted to a primary school in London. He's behind a desk these days, but God help anyone who comes to him asking for help digging up so much as a missing stapler at the office."

"How long has he been out of the force?"

"Two years now, our oldest is seven. He always talks about going back, but then before he knows it he's taking a little time away from the office again to spend time with the baby or take Alan to a cricket match. Doesn't stop him from scaring me half to death every time he goes by the unit 'just for old time's sake'."

"I'm not sure I could ever pull Sherlock away from his work… I'm relatively certain it was his first wife…" John looks around, expecting a sharp retort but Sherlock's slunk off, presumably to continue brooding behind the potted plants unmolested by societally normative husbands.

"They do that, don't they?" Lydia smiles, warming her green eyes and quirking the corner of her mouth.. "I'm afraid we're next, Adam and Gregory wanted to wish you a proper congratulations Father. Coming, Maggie?"

 Annette slips a hand behind her father's back and points toward two of the uniformed old men seated near the front of the tent, guiding the little arty toward their table. Satisfied that he and Sherlock have made a decent impression, John finally relaxes against one of the tent posts.

"They quite liked you," Louisa quips brightly, her curly blonde hair and champagne flute lit up from sunlight filtering through the trees behind her, "Lydia especially, and I think your partner impressed Annie too." Everything about her seems to sway: the gauzy hem of her goldenrod dress, the gold tassels at her ears and the hair curling wildly around her face. John can almost feels the energy humming under her skin like the sun bottled up, and can't help but think that she must have been the worst for the Colonel, growing up-- all fierce energy and almost aggressive beauty.

"He did behave rather well, didn't he?" John muses.

"Annie's the one you've got to worry about-- she's the toughest critic of all of us, and the absolute worst nanny about Father. She'd easily have run the pair of you off if she didn't like you; she's still got the instinct left over from the Navy and if you don't show her proper manners and the lot--" Louisa's scoff is so like the Colonel's it's uncanny, "Well, you've not got to worry about that, as she was impressed and you're not in danger of filial excommunication." At John's questioning look she grins wickedly. "Annie just about killed Lydia's first fiancé-- the bastard. But your other half's well on his way to winning her over too, looks like."

Lydia gestures with her glass, directing John's gaze toward the center of the tent where Sherlock's dark head towers above a giggling and bouncing cloud of children. With one hand he steadies the grinning blonde toddler on his shoulders while the other twirls a little girl with whom he appears to be in deep conversation. She's standing on a table across from him, her white blonde bob an exact replica of Annette's in miniature, gabbling excitedly and spinning slightly off balance in obvious unrestrained glee-- which apparently is of no detriment to her conversational abilities.

It's enough to send John into shock, watching Sherlock let the little girl use him as a sort of ladder to get down from the table, rise again as another toddler tugs at his dark curls and whisk him over his head. He bounces him gently then wrinkles his nose up in a mockery of his usually composed expression, sending the little boy into another fit of unrestrained giggling.

"It's nice to have someone who loves children around. I make babies cry, frankly, but Lydia's always been good with children. Always talks about teaching primary school someday when hers are grown. The lad Sherlock's giggling with is her middle boy, Evan, and Alan is the one chasing his cousin under the table with a frog leg. The girl is Theresa, Annie's oldest, and Henry is the other ghostie haired one over there playing soldiers, it looks like. She's the blondest of all of us, though she's been dyeing it since she got out of the Navy, and her husband's the white haired one in the gray suit."

Lydia points to each of the children in turn, smiling as Sherlock gets down on his knees with them, allowing himself to be used as a sort of shield in a complicated game of tag, before suddenly snatching one of them up, sending them all into surprised shrieks and laughter. It's a surreal experience and John can't take his eyes off of it. this tall, slim monolith with its impossible neutrality, twirly and spinning and crawling around with a gang of toddlers.

"Lydia's husband is somewhere around here, probably chatting up father's friends near the bar. And then all the usual suspects, business associates, father's mates from the service, cousins, all the rest. Not too many, but enough to make a noise and a mess and to make Father happy. You two," she pauses to sip from her glass then lays a small hand on John's forearm, "are the newest additions."

"I'm glad Mrs. Huds-- Marga-- Mag--" John fumbles for a proper name, but stops as Lydia just smiles and waves absently.

"She'll always be your Mrs. Hudson, I know. Maggie loves the two of you very much, always talking about something or other you're on with. It always sounds so exciting; romantic. Is that how you two met?"

"In a manner of speaking. Sherlock sort of… collected me. And somehow in seven years hasn't managed to run me off."

"Clever, intelligent, handsome, probably a wonderful father-- I'm sure he's secretly very rotten."

"Eh… maybe not so secretly. I'm sorry about your aunt, by the way. He gets… like that, sometimes."

"They all do, the good ones. And it's more than alright, maybe she'll think before bringing the entire bottle next time."

"At the very least I'm sorry to be dredging up old animosities" John says, "but I am glad Mrs Hudson has found a family that suits her so well."

"I'm glad she found us! I thought father was just going to moon around for months-- so worried about 'putting her to any trouble' and 'making insinuations, I'm sure she's perfectly well on her own' he wouldn't even ask her name. Maggie's good for him. They're right."

John looks at Louisa straight on, curious. "What do you mean, _right_ ?"

She swirls the champagne in her flute and watches the bubbles spin into shining whirlpool, a tiny furrow appearing between her brows. "I'm not sure exactly how to explain it, truly. It's a quality some people get when they do exactly what suits them, with the people they're best suited to, in exactly the right place. It's… it's… here let me show you." Louie takes off suddenly toward a table in the opposite corner, hitches her gold dress up around her knees, kneels on the picnic table's bench, and begins brushing rose petals off in every direction. John sets his glass down on the table's corner, but before he can sit she smashes her empty flute against the tabletop, sending glass shards in every direction. A few people look up, mildly concerned, but Louie doesn't seem to be paying any attention. Half wondering if **everyone** who seemed to like him was crazy, and half intent upon seeing exactly what the point of this all was, John finds a seat on a glass shard free section of the bench and watches the younger woman pick delicately through the pieces of broken glass.

"See, look at these pieces," Louisa holds up two jagged shards, still dripping, up in the light, for John to see. "They're broken, not a glass, not really anything. You can get cut if you don't touch them properly. But when they're together--" She slots together the jagged edges of each piece, "--they're of a piece. Stronger than they were before, and it just _looks_ right. You can see that these two pieces go together in a way that they can't with any other pieces. They're made for each other, and fill in their empty spaces together. If you find enough people like that in your life, you could even put a whole glass together again. Maybe it would't hold a lot of anything, but that's okay-- nothing's perfect in this world and maybe not even the next. But that's what Maggie and Father are, and my sisters and their families and you and Sherlock and I are for them. Do you see?"

Without realizing it, John's turned to look at Sherlock over across the tent. The detective is seated on top of a table, his feet braced against the bench, with Lydia's son Alan watching the animated gestures of his hands with rapt amazement. It's doubtful that anyone would believe what he's seeing; Sherlock Holmes interacting-- playing with children in the middle of a social gathering populated by actual human beings.

"Do you usually break glassware during your lessons?" John asks, hiding his grin with another sip from his glass.

"Probably as often as I make them. Which reminds me, of father's friends at the university that I haven't said a word to. It was a pleasure meeting you at last, John."

Nodding, John returns his gaze to his husband.

_And well worth the opportunity, to see him like this, and to see him explaining it, later._


	2. "Queenie, Queenie"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the wedding, John was a few questions for Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson's invited us around for tea in three weeks." Sherlock said, leaning his head in through the bathroom doorway. John looked up from the sink, trying to both make eye contact with Sherlock in the mirror and grope half-blindly for his towel.

"I was there when she invited us," John pointed out, struggling to glare with water in his eyes. Finding the towel, he put his face in it and scrubbed vigorously, wiping the water from his eyes and looking back up.

"I wasn't sure if you would remember," Sherlock looked pointedly at the sink, where John had completely missed his toothbrush and sent a spurt of toothpaste onto the faucet. He grimaced. 

"I remember just fine, thanks. You had a bit to drink too." John gestured a touch wildly with the toothbrush at Sherlock, who cocked an eyebrow.

"Two glasses is champagne is hardly a bit and if you also recall, you gave me the second one."

"Just to get you away from that old artilleryman," John garbled around he toothbrush, a bit of toothpaste slipping down his lip, "who I reckon was about two minutes away from punching you."

"The kind of nonsense he was spouting about 18th century ballistics was positively offensive."

"Well, you chose the wrong fight to pick with 'im," John said, then spit into the sink resolutely. He picked up the towel and wiped quickly at the gooey white blob on the faucet. "Are you coming to bed?" he asked, turning to the now empty doorway. John sighed, and dried his hands.

"That you can blame on the champagne." Sherlock called from the sitting room, apparently not having heard the question. John shook his head followed the voice downstairs to where Sherlock was seated at the table between two stacks of bulging manila file folders. The laptop cast his face in an alien blue, two glowing squares of which were reflected in Sherlock's eyes as they followed John making his way into the room.

"What's the case tonight?" He asked, grunting softly as the armchair gave in all the right places under him.

"Lestrade has me on cold cases again, at least until he realizes that his team of incompetents isn't going to make any headway on the kidnapping case," Sherlock answered, turning his attention back to the computer.

"So you haven't got a case?"

Sherlock paused, fingers hovering motionless above the keyboard. Lit from the front he seemed to be perpetually rising from the darkness of the flat; a statue chiseled from ivory and just as immovable. A petulant stone, John thought.

"No, not technically," he said finally.

John snorted, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Then come to bed with me."

"You're too drunk, and I'm not particularly in the mood tonight-- I'm sorry," he said, long fingers flying across the keyboard again. He flicked open the topmost file and glanced at it, rolled his eyes, and resumed typing.

"That's not what I meant Sherlock. I just thought it might be nice to spend some time with my husband today." John leaned back, trying to stretch his stubborn bottom vertebrae. They ached from a day spent on his feet in dress shoes, though the armchair felt quite nice against the dull ache in his back.

"Nostalgic?" Sherlock glanced over the laptop's screen, but John wasn't looking. "I've got to catch up for time lost being out today. Contrary to whatever methodology Anderson and Company might practice cases do not solve themselves entirely."

"Well," John pushed himself to his feet, "I suppose I'll just join you then." He picked up a spiral-bound sketchpad from the side table and dropped heavily into the seat across from Sherlock. He looked up at John with one eyebrow raised. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

"You really ought to go to bed, John. Between the bar and all the little old ladies who wanted a dance with 'Maggie's nice army doctor' I imagine you're tired. Your pencils are on the counter to the left of the stove, behind the kettle."

John retrieved the aforementioned implements and sat back down. Recently he'd been trying to pick up drawing again-- he hadn't been half bad in the army when he'd sketched in his spare time-- and if he was going to have a late night be might as well do something useful. He hadn't opened the pad yet when he had a better idea. 

"What about you, then? At the wedding?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow but didn't look away from the screen. John wasn't about to be deterred.

"The kids. You were playing with them and crawling and… letting them climb all over you and talking to them-- it was… well, you were talking to them, Sherlock. You don't talk to people."

John gestured helplessly with one of the pencils, which elicited no reaction from he detective seated across from him. 

"Is that not how people generally behave with children?" he asked into the laptop screen, a tiny furrow between his brows that John was pretty sure had nothing to do with the conversation we were having.

"You're… you're not supposed to-- you're Sherlock Holmes. You're not supposed to talk and laugh and play with children. You're not supposed to do normal people things-- it's not natural. Someone would have thought that you liked them." John said, trying to pull together some sort of explanation. It had been immensely out of character even for the Sherlock he knew, much less for the Sherlock Holmes of myth and legend, but he was having trouble find the proper words to explain precisely why it was odd.

"I thought I was supposed to be behaving at the wedding."

"And you did. Beautifully-- minus the aunt and the argument with that old man but really-- it's one thing to not cause an incident and another to go and play Queenie, Queenie with the toddlers!"

Sherlock looked up sidelong, saw the slight flush creeping into his cheeks, and sighed.

"I'll put the kettle on if you're going to be up." he said, getting to his feet and crossing to the kitchen.

"You're deflecting."

"I'm making tea."

"It was nice."

"What?" Sherlock asked. The kettle sizzled as he put it down, drops of water dripping down the side and onto the hot burner. John came and leaned against the counter across a diagonal from Sherlock. He got the cream from the refrigerator and set it down, then resumed his post across from the detective.

"Seeing you like that. Playing with those kids; it looked like you were enjoying yourself. You're not usually like that around people. It was nice." John said, watching Sherlock fiddle with one of the mugs he'd gotten from the cupboards. His fingertips played over the surface, skittering across the glossy ceramic lacquer.

"Children are much simpler than adults. Their motives are transparent, their actions can be explain with logic, and while this logic is highly unsound and often entirely unreasonable it is logical. They're honest, and have often yet to acquiring the film of bias an experience that blocks adults from truly observing the world around them. They're honest, perceptive, straight-forward, kind…" he trailed off, his index finger slowly tracing the handle of the mug. 

"You know, I would't think you'd like children. Noisy, messy, running all over the place and bothering things…" John tried to keep from smiling too broadly, but luckily Sherlock was too busy preparing the tea to notice the irony of his description. "I just suppose I haven't seen you around many of them."

"Once they've grown out of soiling themselves and screaming at everything they're not terrible. You can train them out of being sticky all the time, and usually they're running about for a reason, if they've been brought up correctly." He waved a hand for the cream, which John handed him. 

"Which you and Mycroft were, of course." John teased, watching as Sherlock poured a bit of cream into his mug and rather more into John's and stirred.

"Of course not. Mycroft practically raised me himself and you can guess what kind of job he did at that. It's a wonder we made it out of adolescence. There are children everywhere adults are, it's not as though I've been hiding from them," he handed John one of the mugs, "and there was one occasion on which I posed as an au pair for investigative purposes--"

John choked on his tea. "You what?"

"-- and in general I've found that properly raised children are on the whole, pleasant to be around. Of course, once they get to that strange age just before puberty where they're not quite real people but are beginning to acquire all the useless trappings of adulthood-- they're utterly useless from that point on." He said, scrutinizing his tea before taking a sip.

"Obviously."

They stood in silence for a little while, drinking tea and listening to the sounds of 1 AM London outside the flat.

"Thank you," John said at last, looking over at Sherlock. He was looking toward the window, his face slightly tilted upward and elegant in profile. The mug cast a long shadow across his face and neck when he brought it up to his mouth, fingers wrapped all the way around and laced over the handle.

"It's better when you make it." He murmured, blinking slowly and taking another sip of tea.

John didn't bother to correct him, just drank down the last of his tea and walked to the sink to wash the empty mug. Sherlock put one of his hands over John's, taking the mug from him gently and setting it in the damp sink.

"I'll do it." Sherlock's voice rumbled across the small distance between their chests.

John looked up at him wonderingly. There wasn't much he could read in Sherlock's expression, beyond a vague hint of tenderness in his voice that tugged inside his chest. He licked his thumb and pressed it to the corner of John's mouth, wiping gently and lingering with his hand against John's jaw. 

"You know, I think I will go to bed." John said quietly, still watching Sherlock. The other man nodded, and picked his tea back up from the counter. With a yawn, John made toward the bedroom he shared with Sherlock and the bed that lay in it. He turned back, and saw Sherlock still leaning against the counter, staring placidly into the distance. 

When John finally lay down he realized all at once that he was, in fact, quite a bit more tired than he'd thought. He let his mind slide out of focus, part of it settling into the haze of near sleep and the rest lingering on the tapping that filtered down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a continuation of the first scene really, an a springboard into the rest. I'm sorry it's so short, but there's quite a bit more fun to come later if you stick around.

**Author's Note:**

> Parent!Lock is my absolute favorite genre of Sherlock Fanfiction to read. I LOVE putting both Sherlock and John into situations with children, their own or belonging to others. While I adore a lot of the fics I've already read, it's not always easy to find some that aren't heart-rending, or that compose the Holmes-Watson family precisely in the way I want. So I thought I'd make my contribution, in the form of this series. It's still without a title and is still definitely a work in progress, but it's my own exploration of how I feel the family of the consulting detective and the soldier would develop, in my mind anyway. It's in the same universe as "To Recognize the Feeling"... or at least it is so far. Stay tuned for updates.
> 
> Comments and criticism are always welcome.


End file.
